


o little town of lebanon

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Christmas Fluff, Christmas in the Bunker, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's christmas and cas has a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	o little town of lebanon

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas/happy wednesday take two

Of all the places Dean expected to find himself on Christmas Eve (especially this year), it wasn’t a church.

The thing is, this specific church has a Christmas tradition where they get townsfolk to dress up as- yes, really- angels. They don’t do a nativity scene, so maybe that’s supposed to make up for it. The “angels” also spend a good part of December bringing presents to sick kids in hospitals and showing up at various charity events. Their last event as an angel is to show up at Christmas Eve mass, where kids take pictures with them and they walk around handing out candy canes and little trinkets with bible verses written on them.

Cas never told Dean he’d signed up to be an angel. He would go out a lot during December, never telling him where he was going, often only answering with a vague, “I’ll be back soon.” Dean wasn’t  _worried_ , exactly, but mighty curious for sure. It was a complete accident that he found out, actually. He had been heading into town on a supply run, and stopped at a local diner on the way back. He was sitting at a booth next to the windows making up most of the front of the store, and across the street, a group of people in white robes and fake halos and even fake wings were milling about, selling what looked raffle tickets and hot chocolate.

He was about to turn back to his coffee when he caught sight of a familiar mop of dark hair amongst the group, and had he actually managed a sip, he would have spit coffee all over the empty seat across from him.

That was  _Cas_ , decked out in an all angel getup.  _Cas_ , pouring hot chocolate into Styrofoam cups and travel mugs.  _Cas_ , chatting amicably with his fellow angels.

Dean was halfway out of his seat before he caught himself. Maybe Cas didn’t tell him for a reason. Maybe he thought Dean would make fun of him (which he would, but only a little; mostly, he thinks he gets it), maybe he was ashamed or wanted it to remain private or something. Whatever the case, Dean slid slowly back into his booth, and tried to (unsuccessfully) keep an inconspicuous eye on Cas. He looked… well, not  _happy_ , exactly, but serene.

He lingered in the diner long enough for the sky to grow dark, and the group across the street had dispersed.

When the waitress brought him the bill, he asked her about them.

“The Lebanangels?” she clarified, and at Dean’s confused look, she laughed self-consciously. “The people in the white robes and halos and all that jazz?” she tried again.

“Yeah, the, uh… Lebanangels,” Dean corrected himself.

“That’s just the dumb name we have for them,” she explains, “They do it every year. Charity, local appearances, they like to get everyone in the spirit, y’know? And then on Christmas Eve they all congregate during the mass in the church on Field Street. It’s really lovely, actually.”

“Ah,” Dean smiled weakly at her, his mind already a million miles away (or however many miles away Cas was). “Thanks.”

“No problem, hun.” She flashed him a smile, walked away, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, and Dean stared out the window, even though there was nobody there anymore.

***

It’s not like Dean  _meant_  to follow the angels around. He just happened to spend a lot of time in town that month. In public places. Where it would make sense for a group like that to be.

As it turned out, though, Dean ran into the angels more often than he could have believed. At the mall, at the movie theatre, at the  _car wash_ , for christ’s sake.

He found himself back in the diner a couple times, and the same waitress from last time would always smile knowingly at him as he ordered coffee.

“You know,” she said one day, as Cas smiled at a little girl and handed her a candy cane across the street, “they’re always accepting new volunteers.”

Dean had huffed a laugh, but something in his gut squirmed uncomfortably at the thought.

“Ah, well,” he said, as good naturedly as possible, “I don’t really think I’m the angelic type.”

Cas, though. Cas was another story.

It was weird, though, because Dean considered Cas his best friend, and yet he never really knew how _good_ Cas was. Cas, who broke the world only because he was trying to fix it. Cas, who healed babies and stood up for humans even when he wasn’t one. Cas, who stood out in the cold a couple days a week for all of December to bring cheer to people he didn’t even know.

Cas, who stayed.

Dean couldn’t help the soft smile that spread over his face, and he felt like a goofy kid staring across the classroom at the girl of his dreams.

“Oh, hun,” the waitress, Jen, said, clucking her tongue, “Anyone who looks at an angel- real or not- like that? Like attracts like.”

There was no way Jen could really know who he was looking at, but Dean knew Jen well enough by then to know she wouldn’t care.

“I dunno,” he said, and he didn’t really regret it, if only because watching Cas with cold nipped cheeks and a red tipped nose was enough to keep any too awful thoughts at bay for the time being.

“Dean,” Jen said, and yeah, maybe they had struck up a bit of an acquaintance over the month, “you’ve been drinking just coffee in here for weeks, and you tip more generously than most people do for meals. You watch your angel out there like he’s-” Ah, so she did know- “the most beautiful thing in the world. You always put your garbage in the garbage and even though you like to open the sugar packets just for something to do, you never leave a grain behind.” She put one hand on her hip and used the other to point a finger at Dean, “I’ve been doing this job a long time, and I can tell when a person is good and when they aren’t. And honey,” she smiles, big, genuine, “You’re one of the good ones.”

Ah, fuck. Dean blushed, felt the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” she said, and walked away before Dean could even compose himself enough to answer.

He sat at the table a little while longer, not trying to think about anything Jen said too deeply, but when he finally got up to leave, he couldn’t help but feel a little… better.

It was Christmas Eve, and Dean reminded himself to find out where Field Street is.

***

So here he is, in the church. He’s standing awkwardly at the back in a slightly nicer jacket than the one he usually wears, and jeans with no holes in them.

Cas doesn’t know he knows about the angel thing yet, but since the mass is winding down and half the people are milling about and the other half are heading out, Dean figures it’s either now or never. He makes his way through the remaining crowd, and for some ridiculous reason, his heart is pumping abnormally fast.

He thinks, maybe, it’s because this is the most  _normal_ they’ve ever been. This is what people do, right? They see someone they like, they waffle over whether to talk to them or not, and once they’ve finally got the courage, they do. Dean’s never really done  _normal_ , but with Cas, he thinks he’d like to try. Him and Cas have been dealing in absurdities and apocalypses and angelic doctrine since the day they met, so Dean feels it’s about time they scaled back a little.

Somehow, without Dean even realizing, he finds himself in front of Cas. Cas, who’s talking to another angel, must sense someone standing beside him, because he immediately stops talking and turns to Dean, eyes wide.

“Dean,” he says, surprised, before excusing himself from the conversation and drawing Dean off to the side with a hand curled around his elbow. If Dean didn’t know better, he would say Cas actually looked _embarrassed_.

“Hey, Cas,” he greets, feeling a sheepish, lopsided smile appear on his lips. When he realizes what he’s doing, he huffs a laugh and tries to smile properly.

Cas seems bemused at best, hilariously baffled at worst.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, half panicked, and Dean figures that’s a legitimate reaction, since Cas is still wearing the ridiculous angel getup.

“I’m not here to give you a hard time, man,” Dean chides gently, “Relax.”

A little bit of the stiffness actually leaves Cas’ frame as he quirks an eyebrow.

“Really?” he asks, still somewhat skeptically.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean says emphatically. “The deal is, I was in town a couple weeks back and just saw you with the group, so I asked around about it. I didn’t want to like, assault you in front of everyone, and I figured you didn’t tell me for a reason, so I didn’t say anything.” He shrugs self-consciously, “Until now, I guess.”

Cas shuffles uncomfortably. “I didn’t tell you because I figured you would make fun of me,” he confesses, and Dean suddenly feels like shit for giving Cas crap about the gas’n’sip thing a couple months ago.

“Ah, Cas,” he says, chagrined, “I mean, initially? Yeah, I probably would have given you shit for it,” At Cas’ crestfallen look, Dean immediately lays a hand across his bicep and hastily continues, “But I’ve thought about it since then, and I  _get it_ , y’know? I mean, the whole  _angel_  thing is a little on the nose, but who cares? You’re a good guy, Cas. I would never give you shit for that.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says reverently, and he reaches up to hold onto Dean’s forearm, while Dean still has a hand on his Cas’ arm. “I need you to know that I don’t need your approval,” he goes on to clarify, “But I appreciate and cherish it very much.”

Dean nods in understanding, and moves his hand from Cas’ arm to touch the halo over his head. He laughs.

“You’ve got it, man. I mean, I can’t give you the go-ahead on the halo you’re sporting there, but I have to say, you rock it about as well as a fake halo can be rocked.”

Cas’ eyes flash with mirth, and he pulls the headband off his head, halo wobbling back and forth, and places it on Dean’s head instead.

“It looks better on you,” he says solemnly, before his face cracks into a gummy smile that can’t be described as anything other than adorable.

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” Dean faux-complains.

He leaves it on regardless.

***

He offers Cas a ride home, and in the next ten minutes, they’re out into the night. It’s snowing gently, fat white flakes drifting lazily from a pitch black sky.

It’s also properly cold for the first time in a long time, and Dean’s swearing incoherently as he simultaneously tries to blow warm air into his hands and get the heat on in the Impala. Cas, the fucker, is lost beneath layers of hats and gloves and scarves and that fucking too big winter jacket they picked up at a local thrift store back in November.

Which means he’s also probably incredibly warm at the moment, Dean’s brain notes helpfully.

“I don’t understand why you don’t wear better insulated things,” Cas wonders from the passenger seat as they pull out of the parking lot.

Dean shrugs, but doesn’t really have an answer. It’s just one of those things he never bothered with.

Of course, being normal was one of the things he never bothered with, either, and yet here he is, driving home from church with his best friend on Christmas Eve.

***

They get home, and everyone in the bunker is asleep. Charlie and Jody are here for Christmas as well, and Dean even put a Santa hat on Crowley to celebrate. (Needless to say, Crowley was not pleased, which means Dean’s going to find increasingly ugly hats to shove on his head for every holiday hereafter, and probably take pictures.)

Despite his innumerable layers, Dean notices that Cas’ cheeks have still gone pink from the nip of the cold, and can’t help smirking.

“Eggnog?” he asks, opening the fridge as Cas finally shucks his fake wings and robe to reveal one of Dean’s old plaid shirts-fittingly, red and green patterned- that he inherited since moving in, and some khakis that still make Dean shake his head every time he sees them.

“Sure.”

Dean pours them each a glass with a generous portion of alcohol, and he figures if Cas’ cheek grow even pinker as a result, that’s just a bonus.

As Cas takes the first sip and makes a face, Dean can’t help but chuckle.

“Your tolerance is shit, man.”

Cas narrows his eyes, and without saying a word, downs the rest of the glass, much to Dean’s amusement.

“Whoa,” he says, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

Cas doesn’t answer until he’s grabbed a separate glass from the cupboard and drunk a substantial amount of water.

“I may be getting drunk tonight,” he admits, “but I refuse to celebrate Christmas with a hangover.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean takes a sip from his own glass, and heads into the living room, Cas trailing after him.

Normally, one glass of eggnog, spiked as it is, wouldn’t be enough to get Dean tipsy. But aside from breakfast, he’d spent all day in town and loitering in diner booths with just coffee. So for the most part, the alcohol is hitting him on an empty stomach. His tolerance from years past is enough to save him the hangover, but it’s still nice to know he’s not drinking for any of the bad reasons to drink anymore. It’s an activity he’s learned to enjoy again. And the fact that Cas is enjoying it as well is just the cherry on top.

They watch a couple of Christmas specials in silence, side by side on the couch, and Dean feels like he’s wrapped in a cocoon of warmth. Sometime in the past hour, he’s found an old wool sweater to throw on over his Henley, a blanket to spread over him and Cas, and, speaking of, Cas sure seems a whole lot closer than when they initially sat down.

Cas’ eyelids are starting to droop, his head lolling to the side and cheek eventually coming to a rest on Dean’s shoulder. Slow limbed and lazy, Dean grabs the remote and turns off the television, leaving the two of them in the barely there glow of light from the library a couple doors down. Dean presses his lips into Cas’ hair, mumbles, “It’s probably not a good idea to fall asleep like this.”

Cas makes a noise that sounds like an aborted attempt at disagreement, and just mushes his face more insistently into Dean’s sweater.

Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit, maybe it’s cause he went to church tonight, maybe it’s the eggnog, (or maybe those are all just excuses), but Dean presses a kiss to Cas’ temple before managing to gently persuade him to get off the couch.

“Alright man, my bed is closer. Let’s go.”

They shuffle their way to Dean’s bedroom and collapse together onto the bed. Cas smells like eggnog and feels sleep warm and fuzzy, and Dean runs a thumb down his cheek, pad of his finger catching on hair that’s too long for stubble but not quite a beard yet.

 “Merry Christmas, Cas,” he murmurs into the side of his jaw, feeling his lips work against Cas’ skin.

Cas cracks open his eyes, managing to toss out a small approximation of a smile that’s half grumpy, half genuine, and completely endearing.

“I got you a scarf for Christmas,” he says on the tail end of a yawn, “layers,” he explains sleepily.

Dean huffs a quiet laugh.

“You’re ruining the surprise,” he says through a grin, and privately thinks that if Cas just wanted to stay in bed like this forever, then he would never need to layer up again. He’s incredibly warm here as it is.

“Mmph,” Cas agrees, and pulls away from him deliberately so he can come back in to press his lips to Dean’s. “Surprise. Hopefully that makes up for it.”

Dean’s lips tingle.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, and hesitantly curls his hand around Cas’ wrist.

“Merry Christmas, Dean. Now go to sleep.”

***

A couple days after Christmas, Dean wearing his new scarf, he and Cas stop off for a bite to eat at a local diner in town.

When Jen sees them sitting across from each other in a booth (the same one that Dean has been sitting in for the previous month, funny enough), her eyes light up.

“So you found your angel, huh?” she asks as she hands them menus. It’s meant to be said privately, just to Dean, but Cas’ ears perk up regardless. The guy definitely has selective hearing.

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up and he nudges Cas’ shin playfully under the table.

“Something like that,” he says wryly, because in a way, his angel found him just as well. And then it was only when his angel wasn’t actually an angel anymore, but one with a white robe and cardboard wings and a fake halo (that’s currently sitting on the desk in their room) that he thinks they really found each other. It’s in the way their couch cushions always dip them so they’re sitting thigh to thigh no matter what, in the way Cas now has a thing for scratchy woolen sweaters, in the way Dean likes how Cas’ hair tickles his nose and how his stubble that’s too long for stubble rasps along his cheek.

It’s about a lot of things, really. The small things that make up the big. The big that make up the small. All the in-betweens.

Because what’s a relationship without a few layers. 


End file.
